


Half-doomed and Semi-sweet

by genmitsu



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Depression, Jim is very tactile, Jim knows what he's doing, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Surgeon Oswald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 10:29:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14975270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genmitsu/pseuds/genmitsu
Summary: AU with Surgeon!Oswald and Detective!Jim.For Gobblepot Positivity Week 2018.Prompt: Saving Each OtherAs a hospital intern Oswald works ambulance, and one day he saves a policeman. Then mafia takes an interest in him, which results in trauma and broken dreams, but as Oswald falls deeper into despair, he finds something that might just become his lifeline...---Oswald is exhausted by now, his nerves taut, as he watches the patient - his first real patient - looking for signs of his condition worsening. But he seems to be steady, and the swelling subsides little by little. Oswald only now notices that his first patient is rather good-looking, with a square face and blond hair. He’s still unconscious, unmoving, and Oswald looks at the monitors that tell him nothing new. Epinephrine, antihistamines… did he do everything right? Did he read it correctly? The swelling goes down slower than it should.And then his patient flatlines.





	Half-doomed and Semi-sweet

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on a [twitter prompt](https://i.imgur.com/REtOifU.jpg) which I basically went to town with XD  
> And at this point I'm not even embarrassed to use yet another reference to a Fall Out Boy song for a title XD
> 
> Many thanks to [thekeyholder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekeyholder) for helping this story along <3

 

 

It was the end of the shift when the dispatch came through with “Male collapsed, GCPD precinct corner, 5-39, you’re the closest, respond,” and that’s why they are speeding towards the precinct when all of their team is exhausted already. Oswald’s eyes keep closing, and his supervisor is in no shape to move at all. Today’s been a long, long day.

All too soon they arrive to the scene and rush out towards the patient. It’s one of the policemen, and Oswald makes his usual immediate assessment - medium build, in his twenties, no external injuries. Another man beside the patient catches Oswald’s supervisor who is mostly moving automatically, and gushes out information that Oswald takes only the pertinent bits of. He wasn’t attacked. He was coming back from lunch. He said he felt difficulties breathing and then - bam, he’s on the ground, motionless.

Oswald tunes them out - he is the only one here to be of use - and checks the airways which are unobstructed by any external objects, but the throat is swollen, constricted.

“What did he eat?” He asks the man.

“He… he went to a Thai place.”

“Do you know if he has any allergies?”

“No-- I didn’t think he had any!..”

And yet the man is going into anaphylactic shock, judging by the swelling and the weak pulse, and other symptoms Oswald notes only corroborate this. He looks up. No. The supervisor’s no good, he barely registers the patient, and his hands are shaking.

Oswald had to make some decisions on his own already, but he had guidance and supervision. And this… is his first real one. He has to get it right. Is he right?

Oswald looks the patient over, checks the pulse again, notes the condition of the skin. Yes. He’s right.

Oswald gets the epinephrine and makes an injection. Then everything zones out - he’s making more decisions as the patient responds slowly, and the swelling doesn’t allow for intubation, and Oswald comes back to reality with a scalpel over the patient’s laryngeal prominence. His hands are surprisingly steady, and his mind is cold and detached somehow as he makes the first cut. The rest goes the way it did in practice, except Oswald registers all too well that he operates on a patient, a real person, and this is indeed a matter of life and death, and they are the only two people here. He fixes the tracheostomy tube and lets out a sigh, but he’s still not done. Oswald listens to the patient’s lungs, and yes. The air makes it through.

Once that’s done, they place the patient on the gurney and drive back to the hospital. Oswald is exhausted by now, his nerves taut, as he watches the patient - his first real patient - looking for signs of his condition worsening. But he seems to be steady, and the swelling subsides little by little. Oswald only now notices that his first patient is rather good-looking, with a square face and blond hair. He’s still unconscious, unmoving, and Oswald looks at the monitors that tell him nothing new. Epinephrine, antihistamines… did he do everything right? Did he read it correctly? The swelling goes down slower than it should.

And then his patient flatlines.

Oxygen is through the tube, so Oswald only has to worry about chest compressions. He doesn’t remember how he started, except that he’s doing it, pressing on his patient’s chest, and “Another one bites the dust” is ringing in his head, as he watches not the monitors, but the face of his patient. It’s so serene. As if he’s already slipping away. Oswald wills him to regain pulse again, and he’s almost angry at his patient for being so stubborn. Why won’t he try to fight for his life as well? Why won’t his heart start? Why won’t his eyes open? Oswald irrationally wishes he knew their colour. Push. Push. Push.

The blood pressure is low, he notices. Why. The IV… he has to add the IV.

“Take over,” he commands his supervisor who doesn’t object to the tone and presses on the patient’s chest rhythmically. Oswald looks at the monitors. Yes. Saline, and an injection. His hands shake over the IV bag, but as soon as he brings the needle to the patient’s skin, they’re steady.

He takes over from his exhausted supervisor again. Push. Push. Another one bites the dust. Push. Push. Push.

A beat. Oswald feels it under his hands before the monitor confirms it, and the heart thumps right into his palm. He lets out a breath.

He only registers they’ve arrived as someone else barges into the car and he is pushed to the side while his patient is wheeled away from him. He follows, almost blindly, someone bumping into him and telling him something, but Oswald is driven forward, towards the ER room, as if pulled by a leash, and he doesn’t stop until he reaches it and puts his hands on the door, watching the hospital doctors take over, moving purposefully, and he feels that detachment again as he takes in their actions, cataloguing them in his brain.

The patient’s heart is beating steadily, he notes with satisfaction. He did it. His very first and his very own patient is saved.

The rest is a blur. The patient’s friend? colleague? thanks Oswald and shakes his hand, his supervisor commends him, the director takes note of his first success and good thinking. That night Oswald smiles to himself as he falls asleep.

 

In the following weeks he returns fondly to the memory of his first patient. It’s not that he wants to dwell, but it keeps him going, keeps him motivated, gives him confidence. Oswald never learned his name or anything else, he just made sure the man was alright and in no danger, and then he had no time. Internship is hard. He keeps working ambulance for several more months, more decisions, more life and death situations, and Oswald feels that by now familiar detachment that allows him to be at his best as he treats the patients. His hands are always steady even when his heart beats madly in his chest with a gravity of another life over it. A year later he is leading his own team. A year and a half later he learns that the rumours of the hospital’s ties to the mafia are true.

His mother knew that Gotham was a city overrun by crime. But they didn’t really have other options, and so Gotham it was, and all that it entailed. Oswald was bullied in school for his heritage and looks, but he stayed strong through it all, his character tempering all the more in the face of bullying. He studied and studied, wishing to make his loving mother proud, and he got a scholarship for the medical school.

“A doctor,” his mother breathed incredulously, and kissed his cheeks and hugged him, and cooked all his favourite things for a week. She was so happy, said how great it was he decided to follow in the footsteps of his grandfathers, doctors all, and that must’ve been his calling.

And he studied even harder, the intricacies of human system so fascinating, and so many ways they could be affected or ailed… Oswald learned everything he could. He aced his exams. He got the internship not in some rundown hospital, but Gotham General, the main medical facility of the city. He was so proud, his mother was so proud, the glittering career of a surgeon definitely awaited him in the future and his mother would never want for anything.

The truth turned out to be a lot less shiny.

 

They take note of him as he saves one of theirs after a shootout. And he probably makes an easy target, with his immigrant background and ambition he couldn’t and wouldn’t hide. At first they come to him with proposals of mutual benefit - he works with them exclusively, giving them priority, and they ensure his career. Oswald refuses. It’s a good opportunity, he _knows._ But he is also proud, and he wants to prove himself on his own, with his own strength, his own abilities. They soon teach him the stupidity of the idea.

At first there are just beatings, and it’s not something he isn’t used to. It feels like school. He knows how to avoid bullies, knows to watch his back, and when it can’t be avoided, knows to protect his vitals. He has nothing to go to the police with so he doesn’t even bother. The guys beating him were wearing balaclavas and were just the general shapes of mafia thugs - much too common in Gotham. Oswald knows who they are because they beat him so carefully, leaving painful bruises but not damaging him otherwise. His mother is fussing over his bruised face, but he calms her down, saying it’s nothing, and she doesn’t have to worry. The director sees his bruises, looks at Oswald with sympathy, but he can’t do anything. Oswald suspects he’s in the mob’s pocket anyway.

When Oswald doesn’t seem likely to give in even in the face of this abuse, the mobsters up their game. They take care not to mess with his head or his spine or, God forbid, his hands. But they go to town on his legs. As he sits after in some dingy room with his hands handcuffed to a pipe, the pain dulling slowly, he notices with that detachment again that his right kneecap is damaged severely, and he tries to right it, but how much can you do all tied up? Oswald cries bitterly, because this means he won’t be able to handle surgeries beyond the most simple ones. He just won’t be able to stand through an operation, and what good are his hands now? At first he hopes to free himself, get help before it’s too late. He hopes they wouldn’t be so cruel - didn’t they want him to heal their people? But days pass and the damage is irrecoverable.

Oswald only gets a bit of food and water from masked men, enough to ensure he wouldn’t die. They still want him alive after all. Then someone comes into the room, a tall and imposing figure in an expensive coat. He looks Oswald over and tsks.

“Was it worth the pain, boy?” he asks, his voice almost fatherly, and Oswald feels angry tears welling up again in his eyes. He doesn’t answer the don, and that can only be the don, with demeanor like that.

“You’re proud, and I respect that. But one should know when to bend or he would be broken,” the don says, running his finger over Oswald’s cheek. “You’ll never make head surgeon now. Even an assistant position is difficult for you, although you’re clearly so gifted. But you can still be a doctor, boy.”

Oswald looks at him and he never hated anyone quite like this. He feels hate boil inside him, hot like all hell, for this is the man responsible for his pain even if he never laid a blow on Oswald himself, and Oswald wants to see him dead. The glint in his eyes must give him away, because the don smiles thinly and holds Oswald by the chin.

“Bend, boy. You will work with us, will be our doctor. And we’ll try to remedy the injury dealt you… if you keep your end up.”

The don takes Oswald’s hand in his and it feels like death, the touch dreadful with the promised pain and ruin.

“Otherwise you will never be a doctor again, boy. Hospitals don’t have much use for cripples,” the don says in that fatherly tone again, squeezing Oswald’s hand, and Oswald is horrified, hypnotized by the touch, the images of his fingers crushed in the vicious hold rushing through his mind, and this is something he can’t live with. If he loses his hands…

“What say you, boy? Do you yield?”

“...I yield,” Oswald breaks, and bends his head.

 

They let him treat his wounded knee, but the damage is already done. He’ll be limping even in the best scenario, and standing for prolonged periods will definitely be a problem.

They feed him too, rich food that makes him feel nauseous even with smell after his starvation, and Oswald tries to tame his primitive instincts and not gobble down whatever’s put in front of him. He still feels bad afterwards.

They take him back to his place in a luxury car, black leather and polished furnishings, as if trying to placate him. Yet everything is just feeding Oswald’s anger, every bit of consideration from the mob is another injury to his pride that can only be erased with their demise.

He is so thankful he moved out of the flat he shared with Mother during his studies. He doesn’t need her to meet these people, doesn’t want her to see the dangerously luxurious car, the dangerously attentive mobsters - the ones, he is sure, that beat him earlier.

Oswald slams the door behind them, and strips out of his clothes, throwing them in the trash bag. He limps - _limps!_ \- to the shower, and he tries to scrub the touch of death from his hand so hard he damages the skin. It’s only then Oswald allows himself to cry, really cry, lamenting his loss, the end to his ambitions, and the blackness that awaits him. He cries himself to sleep that night, helpless to stop it, like a child.

In the morning he looks at himself in the mirror and nods coldly. Last night was the final bit of pity he allowed himself.

At first life seems to be back to normal. His mother is shaken and keeps calling him way too often, but Oswald works ER now, since it allows for sitting in the quiet moments in-between and he can indulge his mother with a few extra calls, and his shifts are shorter now to allow for recovery. He still misses the ambulance work, and he attends surgeries, yearning to be the one performing those, but he can’t support himself all that well now. His leg is hurting by the end of the shift even if he sits more than he stands.

He can do surgeries though. The small ones, the ones on hands or shoulders or legs, or cranium sometimes, - which he can do sitting. He is both grateful for these small mercies and enraged at himself for feeling this way. He can’t be _settling_ for this. He can’t be content with this, just a small fraction of his talent being realized, and a lot less people he could actually help. Oswald is confident in his skills, always was, and he doesn’t want to critique his former colleagues, but… his hands were the surest in Gotham General. The patients wanted _him_ too - and he tried, oh, he tried his damndest. He could weather a four-hour long operation. It left his leg numb with pain and he was pretty much out for the count after it, but he did it. He could do it. He _could._

Only if he kept doing it, it would damage his knee worse, and leave very little hope of it ever healing.

Oswald can’t handle it. It hurts too much to be thinking about it - weighing down the return to his former state against help he could provide here and now. The knee replacement operation is too expensive and takes too much time for recovery. And who could promise the mob wouldn’t ruin his knee again?

They are always so close too. At first they ask him to treat minor wounds, testing him. He does his best too, because the patient is the patient first, regardless, and he resents them in principle but he can’t harm them, both out of the sense of duty and the newly instilled fear of their retaliation. It irks him so, so much, he becomes snappier than before, his temper short and furious. His mob patients become more high-ranked as his general mood grows darker and darker. At times Oswald wakes up thinking he’d be better off dead. At times he contemplates taking a scalpel to his veins. He can’t do it. Not for fear, no. He doesn’t have any fear of death anymore, nor does he fear physical pain.

He just can’t leave his mother. She is still so proud of her son, so elated to see him achieve new heights despite his trauma. Oswald tries to be happy vicariously through her, and sometimes he almost succeeds. Sometimes, when he can go through an operation and not feel completely drained after, and the patient gets better, and thanks him. It feels nice. It staves off the dark and morbid thoughts for a while. Oswald didn’t major in psychiatry but he recognises the symptoms of depression, sure. Except knowing it and dealing with it are two different things.

Oswald’s morning routine is mechanical. Shower, shaving. Then breakfast - coffee, black, two sugars. Two fried eggs. A toast with butter, an apple. Protein, fat, carbs. He doesn’t care for taste, only for sustenance. It’s enough to last him till lunch at the cafeteria, where he just takes a combo meal. He often skips dinner in favour of more coffee on the way home. The little cafe is cozy, and it almost looks normal when he drinks his coffee there. It’s almost like he’s back to his past self, the one that was full of dreams and ambitions and hopes. Almost.

Mother remains his anchor. It’s thinking of her and her wellbeing that gets Oswald through the day, lets him stay relatively sane even when he’s suddenly whisked away from his shift and his patients in an always luxurious car to some mob hideout to patch some other high-ranked mafioso. The fact he doesn’t get a choice and _has_ to abandon his regular patients still tortures him. He tries to become cold and detached, but he fails and that only makes him spiral down into deeper despair. It’s like there’s nothing worth living for left in life anymore.

He is still not close enough to the don. Maybe the don doesn’t get injured, maybe he doesn’t trust Oswald to treat him. As he well should, Oswald smiles grimly to himself.

His dark mood drives away the few friends he had. Oswald was never popular and his talent only isolated him further, and when he still did better than most despite his crippled leg… that didn’t earn him any sympathy among his peers. He could’ve felt lonely like that, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not anymore. He feels destructive, self-sabotaging, falling deeper and deeper down. Everything around is black. Black. Black.

The city seems to be spiraling into darkness along with him. Ever since the Waynes got killed it became more and more crazy. Oswald doesn’t read the newspapers, but he catches glimpses on TV that rob him of the last bits of hope. He tries to avoid it, avoid everything. He only reads medical magazines now, but lately even those seem pointless. He is trapped, so thoroughly trapped, even if he’s not locked in a cage or anything. But his crippled leg and the promise it embodies are weighing him down as sure as ball and chain. There’s no escape. None at all.

And then there’s the incident. Oswald has trouble processing it, even though he’s been present at the time. He remembers a car hurtling down the road. Gunshots. The car losing control and speeding towards him. His mother’s face as she pushes him out of the way. Her, lying motionless on the sidewalk. Him, checking her injuries and her vitals. The flashes of the ambulance. Them in the hospital. Operation. Fourteen hours long, and he stays awake for the whole of it, nervous tension never leaving him, keeping him taut on the other side of the OR doors. Finally stabilized. Coma.

The prospects are grim, the doctors tell him. He knows. He knows. Oswald pulls his strings with the mafia, for the first time ever, to have her transferred to the best facility. Have her get the best care she can. The first few days are a blur. He can’t get any days off, and works himself to exhaustion, and then he gets a few hours off somehow, because the police wants him to come in and give a statement.

The police precinct is grim like the rest of Gotham. Oswald makes it to the desk sergeant who directs him to some other detective, and Oswald moves as if through a haze, maneuvering through the bustle of the station. It’s like an ant hill, he thinks, and he should also probably get a cane. His leg doesn’t take well to moving like that, so he takes the offered seat gratefully, and tries his best to remember all the details of the incident for the detective that takes his statement. But he doesn’t remember much. No plates. The model of a car and even its colour - something dark, maybe? Gotham has plenty of dark cars. He can’t remember where the gunshots were coming from. He can’t remember anything that could be important, and it just makes the darkness around him pull closer. It envelops him almost fully now, and Oswald feels resigned. There’s nothing good left in the world after all.

He looks at the officer that’s jotting down his useless statement, and then something catches his eye. A face. A face he somehow seems to know, and it’s like a ray of sunshine broke through the dark fog surrounding him. Oswald looks, captivated, at the man that was his first patient. He walks with someone else, talking animatedly, he gesticulates and moves energetically, and he disappears out of Oswald’s sight way too soon, but somehow seeing him makes Oswald breathe easier.

“Anything else?” the detective asks Oswald, not sounding too hopeful, but Oswald suddenly has a memory flash in front of him so vividly, he does have something else.

“I remember the driver. He had brown hair. And… I think there was a scar on his face, on the right side,” Oswald says, and the detective hums with satisfaction, taking a note.

Oswald promises to come again if he remembers anything else, and walks out of the precinct. For the first time in forever, it seems, he can take a full breath, and when he makes it home, he cooks dinner - simple pasta with tomatoes, but he hasn’t cooked dinner in a long, long time.

It’s slightly easier after. Oswald feels like there’s still some semblance of control over his life, control that’s in his hands and no one else’s. His routine is still mechanical, but he gives it more thought, adding more nutrients to his meals, more self-care. His hands are always so dry after the shift, and he’s forgone moisturizer for a long time, just accepting the cracks. Now he uses the lotion both in the morning and in the evening, and his skin starts to heal, and it adds more steadiness to his touch. More confidence. More control.

After hours he walks to the precinct, and loiters inside, pretending he’s waiting for someone, and in fact he is, but it’s not for the police business or anything. He just wants to see him, that first patient of his, a testament to his success and his ambitions, a memory of when he was still well and happy. Somehow, seeing him just walk and talk, doing his job and apparently still being in good health is so uplifting. It’s like this officer is hope personified, and Oswald just stays in the vicinity, watching, trying to glean and save this good feeling for days to come.

The officer doesn’t have it easy either, it seems. Oswald notes small details about him now, and the officer frowns almost constantly, never smiling, he twirls a pen nervously when talking on the phone, and he also has this small habit of rubbing his neck with his thumb when in thought. He is often at odds with his colleagues, Oswald notes, them trying to ignore him or otherwise giving him the cold shoulder. The officer only seems to have one friend in the precinct, a slovenly-looking guy who always wears a fedora, and Oswald feels a soft pang of empathy. It seems like his officer is as alone in his job as Oswald himself is.

Oswald tries his best to be inconspicuous, to better watch him, and he can’t even explain to himself why he hides. It’s not like he’s doing anything bad. He doesn’t want to impose on the officer, not at all, but seeing him gives him hope, and Oswald forgot how painful and irresistible hope can be. He’s hooked on the feeling as bad as any junkie.

His work doesn’t allow him to visit the precinct often, and sometimes he goes through a couple weeks without seeing the officer. And when he finally gets the time and enters the precinct again, and stands there in the dark corner without seeing the officer at all, his heart sinks. Oswald didn’t allow himself to think about it. But what if something happened? Policemen in Gotham are always at such a risk…

He looks around once more, but there’s no sight of the officer anywhere. Oswald turns to leave, his heart and feet both heavy, and suddenly bumps into someone. He wasn’t ready for it and he still hasn’t got a cane, and for a split second he fears that he’ll fall, but then hands wrap around his shoulders and steady him.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t…” Oswald mumbles, raising his head, and he is lost for words, because there’s his officer right in front of him, and his eyes are as blue as a spring sky somewhere far, far away from Gotham.

“It’s alright,” the officer gives him a small, tight smile, and it’s the first one Oswald sees on him, and he just stares. The officer releases him, looking him over.

“I see you here quite often,” he says quietly, his voice very professional. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Do you need help?”

Help? What a foreign concept.

“Ah, n-no,” Oswald can’t seem to find any words, totally lost in the blue gaze.

“What have you got there, partner?” Oswald is suddenly saved from having to come up with an answer by the appearance of his officer’s friend. Perhaps now he can get away...

“Wait,” the friend says. “You look awfully familiar… Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I don’t think so…” Oswald stammers but then the officer’s friend slaps himself on the forehead.

“Of course! God! Of course you look familiar, I’d never forget that day!” and then the man wraps his arm around Oswald’s shoulders to his complete and utter bewilderment and all but presents him to the officer who’s looking as confused by this scene as Oswald himself is.

“Jim!” he exclaims, gesturing to all of Oswald. “Meet your saviour!”

Jim. _Jim._ It has a nice ring to it.

“What are you talking about, Harvey?” the officer - Jim - frowns.

“Remember you got poisoned by that awful Thai place? About a couple years ago? This is the guy who saved you! Got your heart beating again and stuff!” Harvey beams and squeezes Oswald’s shoulders tighter. “Can’t thank you enough, buddy!”

Oswald barely hears him because now Jim smiles at him, a smile so bright and radiant and so completely different from the first one that Oswald could weep from the beauty of it. Then Jim clasps Oswald’s hand in his, warm and sure, grounding him to reality, and Oswald hasn’t felt this way in a long time.

“Wow! I didn’t think I’d actually get a chance to properly thank you for saving my life,” Jim says, his voice so much warmer now too. “Can I take you out for coffee? Would that be alright? Harvey,” he turns to his partner, “will you cover for me?”

“Sure, sure,” Harvey beams at the both of them. “Go on, shoo!”

And then Oswald is whisked away by his officer, who doesn’t let go of his hand somehow and guides him through the busy streets effortlessly, and their pace is fast but Oswald doesn’t feel bothered by his leg. It’s almost like he’s flying. He’s following the officer blindly, and he only comes to his senses when they’re seated at a cafe and the officer - Jim, his name is Jim - asks him something.

“I’m sorry?” Oswald asks, focusing on him again.

“I’ve asked for your name,” Jim smiles at him, kindly.

“Oswald,” he replies. “Oswald Cobblepot.”

Jim’s smile gets even bigger. “I knew someone like you couldn’t have a regular name. You don’t look like a Marty or a John, or something.”

Oswald bristles on reflex, what is this, some kind of mockery? He knows his name sounds weird to Americans. He knows he doesn’t look American, with his pointy nose and pale complexion, and his clothes have always been an object of ridicule. Jim, on the other hand, looks so properly American, that square face and tanned skin and bright, bright colours of him. He probably was a jock at school. He probably bullied people like Oswald.

“Uh…” Jim’s smile falters and Oswald is at once irrationally angry at himself for making it go away. “I didn’t mean any offence by that, you know? You just look… special.”

“I’m sorry,” Oswald says again, and it’s all he seems to be able to say in Jim’s presence, and what even is this, why is he thinking badly of him for no reason? “I just… had a long day,” he finishes lamely and dares to look at Jim, and the smile is back, warming Oswald again like the sun.

“I understand,” Jim nods. “I suppose I should be ashamed for whisking you away so suddenly, but… I really didn’t think I’d ever meet you, and it’s so amazing that I did. Harvey told me all about it, you know. The doctors in the hospital told him that it was a very close call, and I’m so glad I happened to be in your capable hands.”

His hand is covering Oswald’s again, warm, so warm. Oswald feels like a lizard - or a cat - that found a sunny spot and doesn’t want to move. He looks at Jim with shyness, afraid his eyes would betray him.

“I’m not sure if I should tell you this,” he attempts a smile himself, and the way Jim looks at him tells Oswald he likes it, “but since you’ve lived and everything… You were my first.” Jim’s hand squeezes Oswald’s minutely, and Oswald rushes to clarify himself. “My first real patient, I mean. The one who was completely in my responsibility from the very beginning.” He smiles at Jim again, more confident. “That makes you quite special for me.”

“I’m glad then,” Jim says. “More so that we’ve met.”

The waiter brings them coffee that Oswald didn’t even notice Jim ordering, and they have to stop holding hands. The coffee is black, but there’s also a creamer put on the table.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch whether you liked it black or with cream,” Jim grins sheepishly. “Anything to eat?”

“No, thank you, I’m good,” Oswald replies, still shy, and reaches for his cup of coffee.

“Ah, this is so sudden I have no idea what to say,” Jim says, running his hand through his hair and messing it up. “I’m just blown away. Can you tell me something about yourself, Oswald? Like… how did you become a doctor or something?”

“It’s a family thing,” Oswald says. “Most of my ancestors were doctors in the Old World.”

“Oh. Are you from there as well?”

“No. I was born here,” Oswald takes a sip. Bitter, too bitter. “What about you?”

“Gotham-born, Gotham-bred,” Jim chuckles. “I only left for the army tours, and I was really glad to come back.” He finally reaches for his cup and adds sugar, two lumps. No cream, Oswald notes. “Do you like Gotham, Oswald?”

He really has to think about it and he hides behind his cup of coffee, buying himself time. The tablecloth has stripes on it. Red. Festive.

“It’s a difficult city to love,” he says, more honest than he intended. “It keeps trying to hurt you.” He’s seen more red in the city lately. Was it some kind of holiday? Or is he imagining the streets washed with blood, after patching up about a dozen mobsters in just a few days? There’s something going on.

“True…” Jim’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts. “But I feel like it owns me, and I want to make it better than it is.”

Oswald raises his eyes to look at Jim, who sounds shy and almost defensive, and - oh. He understands.

“They mock you for it, don’t they? Your colleagues,” he asks, quietly, unsure whether or not he should’ve said it, but…

“Not to my face,” Jim cracks a sad smile. “But they don’t get it. They just… don’t.”

He’s twirling the spoon in his coffee, watching it, and Oswald tries to find something uplifting to say, something to cheer him up, but he’s such a downer lately and his mind only gives him somber stuff.

“I… experience something like that,” Oswald offers at last. “It’s different, of course. But my colleagues don’t really understand either. I don’t have a high and noble goal, though,” he continues, quieter. “I only can’t stand to see others ailing. Also Gotham is my home… and I wanted to prove myself to it.”

“Wanted?” Jim narrows his eyes at him and Oswald is indeed more honest with him than he should be. But it’s probably their only meeting, so he shouldn’t care. And it means he should stop coming to the precinct to watch him and that… hurts. But he shouldn’t have placed something as heavy as hope on someone else’s shoulders in the first place.

“It’s more difficult than I’ve expected,” Oswald says, hiding behind his cup again and avoiding to look at Jim.

The waiter suddenly appears near their table again and puts desserts in front of them, something pretty and fruity, with a strawberry on top, and a triple layer chocolate thing, also with a strawberry. Oswald glances at Jim questioningly, but he looks as confused by it as Oswald is.

“Compliments of the chef,” the waiter grins at them. “It’s Valentine’s season and all, every couple gets a dessert.” He winks at them. “Enjoy your date!”

Oswald flushes to his ears and stammers something, but the waiter isn’t listening, and then he catches Jim’s eye, and he freezes mid-word. Jim looks so… he doesn’t look disgusted or outraged, he looks _pleased,_ and is it because of the waiter mistaking Oswald for his date? it can’t be that Jim is just so smug he’d be content with anyone else, right? Because Jim smiles at _him,_ and he looks so kind…

“I didn’t plan on it, but I seem to be quite lucky today,” he says. “And even if you don’t want it to be a date, uh… free dessert, right?”

No way is Jim a smug person or a bully. He looks too earnest for that, and he brushes Oswald’s hand again, shyly, before turning his attention to the desserts plates.

“Uh… which one do you want?”

“I don’t really care,” Oswald says, still a little out of it.

“You don’t like sweets?”

“It’s not that… I just, well, I don’t care for food as long as it’s edible.”

“Now that seems like a waste,” Jim tilts his head, looking him over, and then he just scoots closer, a determined gleam in his eyes. “Things like these are meant to be enjoyed,” he grins, and takes a bit of the fruity dessert with his spoon, and brings it to Oswald’s mouth. “Come on, just try it.”

Oswald looks at him, incredulous, but when those eyes and that smile are so close, he just wants to go along with whatever Jim suggests. That doesn’t seem safe, but for now Oswald doesn’t care, and so he smiles a bit and eats what Jim offers.

He hasn’t paid attention to food for a long time. The taste is irrelevant, it just has to be more or less fresh, and providing enough energy for him to function. But today is a very different day, and the soft mousse in his mouth explodes with flavours of fruit and cream and something like jelly, and it tastes heavenly, and he can’t hold back a sigh of content.

“See?” Jim grins at him. “Now try the chocolate one,” he says, but he doesn’t give Oswald the spoon, taking a piece again to feed him instead. Oswald feels blush growing deeper on his cheeks, but he takes the piece, and the chocolate is melting in his mouth, taste rich and warming and sweet. He hums.

“You seem to have been missing out, Oswald,” Jim says, his face mischievous. “You can have both.”

“Let’s… let’s share, okay?” Oswald ducks his head, feeling awkward. “You should enjoy them too.”

“Okay,” Jim says, and plucks the strawberry from the chocolate thing, putting it on the plate in front of Oswald. “But you get all the fruit. Doctors say it’s good for you,” he grins.

He keeps teasing Oswald into eating the most of the desserts, and feeds him those strawberries, and adds sugar and cream to his coffee, and Oswald feels tingly all over, because… because no one cared before but mother, and mothers, well, you get used to it. But Jim just… envelops him in something warm and nice just by being next to him and talking of other desserts he thinks Oswald would like. It gets darker then, and they get up reluctantly, and Jim insists on seeing Oswald off in a cab. Oswald doesn’t protest. He never wants this day to end, because today he feels - normal, almost, and definitely more happy than he has been in months.

In the car Jim is more quiet and he somehow finds Oswald’s hand again, and Oswald doesn’t move away, welcoming the contact. Today has been good. He wants all of it before the day ends and he’s back to his bleak life again.

Jim gets out of the car faster and walks around it to help Oswald out. His hand is steady, and it lingers.

“I’d love to see you again, Oswald,” he says, trying to sound casual, but there’s this slight tremble to his voice betraying his nerves. “Either a date or just a hangout, whatever you prefer.”

Oswald feels warm and tingly again - not only Jim wants to see him, he’s not opposed to dating him, his weird looks and dark mood not deterring him, and it’s unbelievable. Today is a dream and Oswald’s afraid to awaken, but he is at the same time emboldened by Jim’s offer, and so he leans closer and pecks Jim on his cheek.

“I’d like that,” he says quietly, stepping back. “A date.”

Jim beams at him then, bright as the sun, and adds Oswald’s phone to his contacts, and calls him right away to put his own number there, and Oswald feels giddy as a high-schooler except he never experienced anything like this in high school. Their hands linger once again, but they part finally, and Oswald returns to his flat - and it doesn’t look that bleak anymore.

He feels a surge of energy in the following days. The meeting with Jim further broke the dark and hazy shell surrounding him, and Oswald tries his best to not let it close over him again. He notices layers of dust on the surfaces of his flat and wipes them down. It seems like a little thing, but Oswald feels better after. He declutters the shelves and the table, and it also does wonders, he starts to enjoy his flat just a little bit more.

Daily visits to Mother are more cheerful as well. Before he could only talk stiltedly of his day’s work as he took care of her, but now he talks of other things he notes around. Like how the weather of Gotham isn’t that constant grey drizzle after all, and if you’re lucky you can hear the birds chirping in the morning, and that he and Jim exchange texts daily. Both are so busy with work, but they manage to send at least a couple, and it’s so easy and fulfilling, talking with Jim, after Oswald’s initial awkwardness faded a bit. He leaves his mother feeling better, knowing she’s cared for, and that she’d want him to enjoy himself.

Food is different though. Sometimes he eats healthily, sometimes he forgets it completely. He still doesn’t care much for the taste, but he buys a chocolate cake once at the hospital cafeteria, and it feels dry and overly sweet in his mouth and he can’t finish even the half of it. Oswald doesn’t try the desserts after.

One day he’s picking at his combo meal again, not at all enticed by mashed potatoes and meatballs, but he needs both protein and carbs, and so he tries his best to eat. Someone shows up at his table, sitting across from him, and it’s been a while since anyone wanted to keep him company, so Oswald looks up and is greeted by a brilliant smile.

“Jim!”

“Hi,” he says, reaching out to touch Oswald’s hand briefly. “I didn’t expect to meet you here.”

The warmth radiates through Oswald from the spot that Jim touched, and he feels his cheeks blushing. He ducks his head and tries to focus on his meal, although he wants to drink in the sight of Jim more than anything.

“How come you’re here?” he mumbles.

“It’s the job,” Jim says, offhand. “One of my witnesses got attacked, I’m here to supervise him and get his intel as fast as possible.”

“Oh. Is it something serious?”

“Not really,” Jim shrugs. “A few stabs in the leg. But he’s wailing like he’s going to die this instant, so he’s not really forthcoming.”

“I see,” Oswald smiles a little at Jim’s attitude to stab wounds and dares to look up at him, getting lost in his blue eyes immediately. Something so bright is almost out of place in Gotham.

“To be honest, if I knew it’d let me meet you, I could’ve stabbed him myself,” Jim says, but as soon as he sees Oswald’s eyebrows rise almost to his hairline, he waves his hand defensively. “I’m joking, I’m joking, of course!”

Oswald smiles a little wider and takes a sip of his coffee. Jim tilts his head to the side and looks from his meal to Oswald’s.

“Hmm… it seems I didn’t really think it through,” he says, pensieve. “Those meatballs look pretty inviting. Should’ve gotten those instead of sweet and sour chicken. Can I have a taste?”

Oswald looks at his meal dubiously, wondering just what could be so inviting about cafeteria meatballs, but he pushes the tray closer to Jim anyway.

“Be my guest,” he says.

Jim picks one meatball and puts it in his mouth, humming in appreciation. Oswald looks at him, incredulous, because honestly, did they really taste that good? He… oh. He didn’t even try the meatballs today, maybe they did turn out better than before?

“I feel kinda bad for robbing you,” Jim says, taking a piece of his chicken with his fork and bringing it to Oswald. “Here, have a piece of mine in return.”

Oswald feels awkward, what is it with Jim and feeding him? But it’d be a lot more awkward if he tried to protest, so he just takes the bite and chews. The taste is a lot better than he’d come to expect from cafeteria food, the sweetness of the sauce is accentuated by the sourness of the lemon in it, and the meat is tender and fresh, and he really should’ve gotten that instead if he knew it’d taste like that.

“Good?” Jim asks, his eyes crinkling. Oswald nods. “Here, have some vegetables to go with it.”

Oswald just goes along with Jim’s quirk, taking the grilled vegetables as well, and they taste a lot better too. He really should try getting those.

“What do you say? Swap with me?”

“Are you sure you don’t want that?” Oswald asks. “It’s really good.”

Jim contemplates the trays again. “How about we share?” he says, but it ends up like with desserts, Jim somehow convincing Oswald to eat the better part of each portion and Oswald never quite figuring out how it came to that. He’s feeling sheepish but content too, it’s been a long time since he enjoyed something like a meal here, and he’s sure it’s got something to do with company. He wants to tell Jim that, but he’s interrupted by his phone ringing. It’s the nurse’s station.

“Yes?”

“Markovic is responding slower again and you have incoming with acute respiratory problems.”

“Up norepinephrine dosage for Markovic, and I’m on my way.” He looks at Jim with a guilty smile, but he just waves Oswald on, nodding.

Oswald walks as fast as his leg is able to take him, and he’s scrubbing up as the respiratory patient, a young girl, is rolled in.

“Status?”

“Edema, difficulties breathing, loss of consciousness. GCS 4. EMT confirms a bee sting, removed.”

The information paramedics provide of her vitals is not encouraging and especially the blood pressure is nothing good. He checks the airways, and what the hell, why is her throat so swollen and no intubation was done?

“Medication?”

“Epinephrine and antihistamines on the way.”

“Doesn’t look like it’s been enough,” he mumbles.

The attempt to get the endotracheal tube in fails, the swelling too severe and growing, and the anaphylaxis is apparent. Oswald concludes there’s been more than that one removed sting, and the assistants look for it frantically as he identifies landmarks for the crike. They finally find one more sting behind her ear, concealed by the hairline, and it is removed swiftly, but they can’t wait for the swelling to go down with her already not getting enough oxygen, and Oswald makes the cuts and maneuvers the tube in place, his hands steady as always, and he gives quick directions to his team, and then he feels someone’s stare at him. He glances up from the patient, meeting Jim’s eyes. He’s standing there, on the other side of the doors, watching him raptly, but Oswald can only look at him for the briefest of moments before he turns his attention back to the girl. At least they managed to avoid her going into shock. He monitors her, and she is - stable. There were no extra stings, and she seems to be responding to the meds and the IV, her vitals returning to normal. Oswad breathes a sigh, finishing up.

As he exits the ER, Jim is still there, waiting for him, and he hands him water in a plastic cup, which Oswald drinks gratefully.

“Serious stuff?” he asks, nodding to the ER.

“Not exactly, but very time-sensitive. Anaphylaxis progresses quite rapidly,” Oswald says, sitting down. Jim joins him, and it feels so nice - with someone willing to spend time with him. He steals a glance at Jim, who is thinking about something, and his thumb is tracing his neck again, and Oswald’s breath catches in his throat as he realizes Jim’s finger is tracing a small pale scar just under his Adam’s apple - the scar that Oswald gave him.

“What?” Jim notices him staring and grins. “Like what you see?”

Oswald flushes but he’s unable to avert his eyes from Jim, and his gaze darts to his neck again. Jim’s smile turns softer as he watches him, and it’s doing something to Oswald, something that feels really nice too.

“It’s my scar,” he says quietly, bringing his hand to Jim’s neck and brushing the small mark on his skin. Jim stills, but his pulse is racing under Oswald’s fingertips, and he looks at him with a strange expression, yearning and a bit dangerous, and Oswald swallows uneasily, taking his hand away.

“You were almost the same as her,” he says, averting his eyes but feeling Jim’s gaze upon him nonetheless. “Unconscious, airways restricted, and you didn’t respond to meds quickly enough. I had to cut you an airway.”

“And here I thought it was your signature move or something,” Jim chuckles, but he sounds tense.

“I wouldn’t just go around cutting people’s throats, you know?” Oswald smiles shyly. “That would be insane.”

Jim looks at him and he’s still so tense that Oswald mirrors it unconsciously, feeling stiff and uneasy, but then Jim reaches out and takes Oswald’s hand in his. He’s stroking Oswald’s fingers with his, absentmindedly, and it relaxes him again, that cat-in-the-sun feeling blooming through him. Jim’s hands feel so nice, soft and careful, and...

“Oswald, do you want to go out this Saturday? Are, are you free this Saturday?” Jim says abruptly, his eyes lighting up. “A school buddy of mine is giving a concert at this restaurant, and I think we could have a good time. What do you say?”

“I have to check the schedule,” Oswald says, reaching into his pocket for the phone. Saturday is free on his docket, and he feels excited, looking back at Jim.

“I could go,” he says, and Jim grins at him.

“Great! I’ll pick you up at 7, alright?” his thumb is stroking Oswald’s palm, going in circles, and it’s both relaxing and tickling and Oswald feels a stupid urge to giggle.

“Officer, there you are!” One of the nurses peeks through the door to the corridor where they’re sitting. “The patient you brought is ready for you.”

“Ah…” Jim looks at Oswald with regret. “Gotta go. This one is pretty urgent.”

He stands up, and his hand slips off Oswald’s, lingering to the last.

“I was so glad to see you today. And I’m really looking forward to Saturday. Don’t forget about it.”

“I won’t,” Oswald smiles back almost despite himself. “It was my pleasure, Jim.”

Then his phone rings, and it’s the nurse’s station again, their goodbyes are cut short, but Oswald feels warmer through the day, everything around him just a little bit brighter, and he’s not as exhausted by the end of his shift.

It lasts, that good feeling. It lasts remarkably, tenacious as Oswald himself had been once.

On Saturday Oswald tries his best to groom his appearance into something deserving Jim’s company. He doesn’t have any casual clothes though, and he never felt comfortable in those anyway, so he chooses his most simple suit but adds the fanciest tie, and goes to pains with styling his hair the way he did before, when he was still working ambulance. He remembers his colleagues teasing him about it, how it made him look like a bird, but it was good-natured then and he didn’t mind. These days they call him ‘Penguin’ because of his limp that makes him waddle, and he does mind, since only a few of them aren’t mean about it. He stops this train of thought. He doesn’t need it. Today is the day he wants to enjoy, since he’s meeting Jim again at last.

Jim shows up in his car at exactly the time he said, and he’s also dressed up in a good suit, pretty as a picture in Oswald’s eyes, and he compliments Oswald and holds Oswald’s hands before seating him in the car, and it feels unreal, except it really is happening. They talk a little of this and that on their way, of their work, of things that catch their eye as they drive, and Oswald has that tingly feeling all over again, because this is what life, what normal life feels like.

The concert is a jazz one, and it’s good, even though Oswald never cared much for jazz before, but he’s sitting in a restaurant booth close to Jim who holds his hand and orders them some champagne, and the food Jim chooses is delicious, Jim teasing him again into eating more, giving him a portion of his fish as well, and sharing his potatoes, and he orders desserts which Oswald enjoys - really enjoys. Oswald feels closer to his former self, the one that was daring and confident, and he even cracks a joke that makes Jim laugh, the sound beautiful, beautiful like the rest of him.

“I like it when you laugh,” he tells Jim, plain and bold. “Really do.”

“I hope one day I’ll hear your laugh as well,” Jim winks, squeezing his hand. “And for now I will enjoy your smiles.”

Oswald smiles sheepishly at that, his cheeks blushing, and he shifts in his seat. Jim is too good for him. Why does he even like him? But he does, he does, it’s unmistakable, because he can’t tear his eyes away from Oswald, and he touches him whenever he can, soft, and warm, and reverent. Oswald just decides to enjoy it for as long as it lasts.

Jim takes him back after, and helps him out of the car, chivalrous and considerate, and he holds his hands again.

“I really enjoyed today,” Oswald says to him, trying to remember the way Jim’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Thank you so much for the lovely evening.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Jim replies, and his voice is shaking a little. “I don’t wanna sound clingy or anything, but I want to see you as often as possible.”

Oswald’s heart aches at his words, the feelings stirred inside him are painful and dangerous like brittle glass, because no one told him that before, and no one wanted him before, and Oswald wants to trust Jim fully and he fears it. What if it’s just a prank, or a short-lived infatuation born God knows out of what, a feeling of gratitude or another such misplaced thing? Oswald isn’t ready for heartbreak. Not yet. Or ever.

“Can I kiss you, Oswald?”

Oswald nods, the ground tilting from under his feet as he falls into trust anyway.

Jim’s touch is reverent on him, gentle, cupping his cheek, and then he touches his lips to Oswald’s, soft, soft, pressing just a little, and he moves his lips slightly, caressing, and Oswald answers him, instinctively responding to Jim’s lips against his. It feels like every happy moment of his life rolled into one - and also standing apart from all of them, on its own.

Their goodbye is bittersweet after, neither wanting to let go, and they make promises to find more days off - or at least evenings off - to meet again.

Oswald smiles to himself as he falls asleep, feeling deeply content. Tomorrow he will cook himself breakfast, a good and proper one, and he’ll go out to a cafe for lunch, not settle for the cafeteria food. And he will vacuum the apartment and maybe even fix that cabinet door that keeps getting stuck.

 

He’s yanked out of his bed unceremoniously and more or less carried downstairs, a palm over his mouth muffling his cries of protest. He’s thrown in the backseat, the car revs up furiously and speeds down the street the moment the door shuts behind him. Oswald isn’t hurt or restrained, and he recognizes the car as he sits up. Of course. The same luxurious car that always takes him to the mafia hideouts. But usually they at least call him and give him time to get dressed. Oswald feels cold in his pyjamas, his bare feet are freezing, and he tries to tuck them under his butt which is not an easy feat with his knee the way it is.

“What’s the rush?” he asks the driver testily, because, really, they could’ve at least let him find his shoes.

“Boss wounded,” the driver replies gruffly. “So you’re gonna patch him up.”

“What’s the wound?”

“Shot through the stomach, that’s all I know,” the driver says. “Now shut up and get ready.”

That sounds urgent enough. But also… an abdomen operation. Oswald’s limit is still four hours, and that’s _with help._ What is he supposed to do there, alone? Do they even have the necessary things? Oswald shivers, and not only from the cold.

He’s brought into a room in a mansion, where the don is lying on the bed, pale and sweaty. Oswald walks to him, briskly, his feet warming up on the carpet after the walk across the snowed-in porch. The don looks at him with a weak smile.

“Don Falcone.”

“Good to see you, boy,” the don says. “I am going to be in your hands here.”

“I need a look,” Oswald says, and pulls off the blanket and the crude compress on the don’s abdomen to see the damage, and sucks in a breath. It doesn’t seem like the bullet went through his intestine, but it doesn’t look good for his liver, and what is he supposed to do here, in the absence of the proper OR and nurses and tech? It’d be almost impossible even at the hospital.

“You’re asking me to perform a miracle,” he says, blunt and steady.

“So do it, boy,” the don says, slowly, his voice weak but menacing nonetheless. “You know what happens if you fail.”

Oswald gulps. He knows. They don’t even need to do it _to him_. Just switch off life support, and…

“I need an operating room, but you can’t be moved.”

“There’s a makeshift one here. And my men got what they could from a drugstore,” the don coughs, his voice growing weak. “Work your magic then, boy.”

Oswald is led into that operating room and it doesn’t look bad. It has the table, the lights, and even sets of scrubs, and several boxes of all kinds of medicine and drugs. So maybe it’s not impossible. Just impossibly difficult.

He returns to the bedroom and commands the don’s bodyguards to place him carefully on the gurney, and then supervises the don being transported to the OR and put on the table. He rummages through the boxes and gets the most necessary things out.

“You,” Oswald points to one bodyguard, tall and slim like a snake, “wash your hands and scrub up. You’re going to assist me.” He turns to another bodyguard, a heavier man. “You will also wash yourself and scrub up. But first bring me a pair of slippers.”

Oswald puts his scrubs on, and his feet are finally warm, slippers shielding him from the concrete floor, and he looks at the monitors they finally connect the don to - nothing fancy, just bare minimum, but it should be enough. Heart rate, blood pressure… just about what he expects. He injects the epidural, sanitizes the area and makes that first cut.

Everything zones out. He works swiftly, staunching the bleeding, administering the IV, making sense of what is damaged and what could be saved. The don is very lucky indeed that his intestine is intact. Both of them are lucky. At some point the slim bodyguard faints and falls limply onto the floor, yet the other one stays with Oswald all through the operation, handing him instruments, monitoring the don’s vitals and providing extra lighting. The bleeding is the problem, as it always is with the liver, and it takes a lot of time for Oswald to get it under control. His leg goes numb halfway through, he’s putting all of his weight on the other one, but that’s barely enough. At some point Oswald commands the bodyguard to put his hands on his hips and steady him, because he’s close to collapsing himself, the physical strain of it almost unbearable. He’s stitching the don with the last of his strength, and when the last stitch is in place, he slides onto the floor, the bodyguard just barely slowing his fall.

Oswald is dragged to a chair where he sits, completely spent physically, yet his mind is in overdrive, watching those monitors, that blood pressure, and calculating still what has to be done. His eye catches the clock in the corner. Seven hours. It lasted seven goddamn hours. His shift starts in two. He asks for a phone and calls the hospital, saying he’s sick. He nods off after, the rhythmic beeping of monitors lulling him, but he jerks awake after only a few minutes, to check on his patient again. Everything seems to be alright, so far. He keeps dozing off for small portions of time, waking up way too often, but his nerves aren’t calm, and he can’t relax, not with these stakes at hand.

The don stirs eventually and motions for Oswald to come closer. He can barely feel his feet, moving in slow deliberate steps, afraid of toppling over.

“Seems like you’ve pulled that miracle off after all,” the don says weakly once Oswald is close enough.

“You’re still not out of the woods yet, Don Falcone.”

“You’ll pull me through, I am sure,” the don smiles, and Oswald’s skin crawls at the sight. “Now, boy… tell me, what is your business with Detective Gordon?”

“Who?” Oswald blinks, the sudden shift in the conversation catching him by surprise.

“Don’t try to fool me,” the don catches Oswald’s hand and squeezes it way too hard for a person in his condition. “Detective James Gordon. You go to the police station too often, to see him.”

He’s talking about Jim. Jim is a detective? More importantly, they must never know he likes Oswald, they must never know they interact on a personal basis - they will tarnish it at once, they will use Jim as leverage over him, and who knows what they might tell Jim about him, to sway him? Could he be used as leverage against Jim? It all depends on what they already know.

“I met him when I gave a statement about the incident with mother,” Oswald says, his eyes locked on Falcone’s. “He wanted more details.”

“A pretense,” the don smiles again. “He is sweet on you for some reason. It’s always that way with shiny heroes… they’re freaks in some other respect.”

Oswald grimaces, the don’s words cutting too deep. He knows he’s unloveable. He knows he’s not pretty or even remotely good-looking, despite his mother’s assurances. This… this fragile and beautiful thing with Jim, it was the best that ever happened to him, and now that too is damaged and taken and destroyed.

“That’s good for you, boy,” Falcone speaks on. “Continue to see him. Seduce him if you have to. And if you’re successful… we’ll get you that knee replacement.”

Cold. Cold. Oswald freezes in his spot, petrified, unable to believe his ears. He wants him to… he wants Oswald to become the dirt on Jim, and dangles his recovery in front of him, to sweeten the deal. Oswald tries his best to muffle the hate boiling inside him, and smiles eagerly.

“I’ll do my best, Don Falcone,” he says, and the tremble in his voice could be so easily mistaken for elation, he almost mistakes it himself.

“Good. And if you somehow get him to spill the beans on his investigations… expect it to happen faster,” the don nods and finally releases Oswald’s hand.

Oswald checks the monitors and the IV, and returns to his chair. These first hours after the operation are the most critical ones, and he has to stay by his patient, but he longs to get home - no, not home. He wants Jim, he needs to talk to him, needs to… Will Jim understand? Will he go along? It’s one thing to take Oswald out for a date, not so many strings attached yet, and it’s a completely different thing to get into this tangle that Oswald represents.

He counts the hours until it’s safe for him to leave. Don Falcone seems to be doing well despite his age, and Oswald is relieved, since too much depends on this old spider surviving.

Oswald concludes that the don is stable at some point, and he leaves instructions for his care, and is finally taken back home. He walks up to his flat, never caring for the glances he gets in his pyjamas, and the first thing he does after slamming the door is dart for his phone. He dials Jim, and waits for him to pick up with bated breath.

“Oswald?”

“Jim. I really need to talk to you. Can you come?”

There’s a slight pause and then Jim says, “I’ll be there in twenty. Okay?”

“Okay,” Oswald says and hangs up.

He paces the room nervously, too tense to focus on anything else. He tries to sit, tucking his feet under, since they’re cold again, but he only manages to stay still for a minute and then his nerves get the better of him again. The quick rap on his door startles him, but he dashes to open it at once, and there’s Jim right there, his face worried.

“Oswald, what happened? Are you alright?” is the first thing he says, and Oswald just flies into his arms, unable to hold back, and Jim is startled, but he wraps his arms around Oswald readily, and pats his back, murmuring something calming until Oswald is able to collect himself.

They step into the flat eventually, and Oswald releases Jim, feeling embarrassed, but Jim just takes him in, his tension, his pyjamas, his bare feet, and he says nothing, but he leads Oswald into the living room and makes him sit on the sofa, and holds his hand.

“Tell me everything,” Jim says, and Oswald does. The words come spilling, stilted at first, but he tells Jim of his ambulance work, and how he caught mafia’s attention and the way they made him cooperate, and then his mother’s incident and how it put more cards into Falcone’s hand against him. Jim’s hold on him tenses with every bitter detail, and he juts his jaw, the frown appearing on his face, and Oswald doesn’t want to see it, doesn’t want it marring Jim, but the only way out is through and Jim would be safer if he knows, and maybe he would even help… he could at least put his mother in protective custody, or something, right? and so Oswald finishes up with the don’s recent proposition, feeling dirty for even telling this to Jim, and he can barely look at him as he does.

The silence is pressing on him as he waits for Jim’s reaction, his thoughts start going in crazy circles in his mind again. What if, what if, what if--

“Oswald,” Jim says, finally, and Oswald looks at him, fear and hope mixed up, “I’m with you through all of it, alright? Thick and thin.”

“You’re not… disgusted?..” Oswald asks, incredulous, and he almost flinches when Jim cups his cheek.

“By what?” Jim looks at him, his blue eyes kinder than ever before.

“By… me,” he says quietly. “I’m nothing but trouble, Jim. And I’m not… nice, to be around.”

“Oswald…” Jim says, slowly, holding his gaze, and brushing his thumb over Oswald’s cheek. “I like you. I really like you, very much so, and I understand that it might be difficult for you to believe it now, but I want to see you get to a point where you can, and help you along the way. I hope you’ll let me.”

Jim takes Oswald’s hand in his then and gently strokes his fingers, massages his palm, and it’s soothing and sensual, and Oswald is suddenly aware that he’s only wearing pyjamas, a single and rather thin layer of clothing between him and Jim, and he’s flushing all over.

“You’re so cute when you blush,” Jim smiles, running his thumb over Oswald’s wrist, and was his skin always _that_ sensitive there? Oswald almost shivers.

“Now you’re just trying to make me feel better,” he says, breathless, entranced by Jim’s touch.

“Yeah,” Jim agrees easily. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true. And I meant it when I said I want to see you all the time. I want to date you. I want to be a part of your life. If some old creep thinks it makes me a freak, well, I’m not big on him either.”

Jim says it with such snobbiness, something about him so boyish when he does, that Oswald snorts and laughs out loud, the sound bubbling out of him like something out of control, filling him whole and pouring out at the same time, and he feels free, unfettered, unrestrained.

“I knew I’d love your laugh,” Jim murmurs softly, and Oswald kisses him.

 

They talk about how they should go about it all, what Oswald should tell don Falcone, what Jim would be able to divulge - important enough to not make Oswald a liar, but at the same time not too vital to jeopardize ongoing investigations. They plan dates, creating the image of a whirlwind romance, but in reality they take things slow, with Jim giving Oswald as much space as he wants while encouraging and supporting him all the time. He always asks for Oswald’s consent before he kisses him, and with time these kisses become so heated that Oswald has trouble falling asleep after. He loves those. He loves everything Jim gives him, the soft touches, the gentle hugs, the tiny pecks on his cheeks or temples when they’re at the movies, the way Jim’s hands are always holding his.

He feels so much better now, his appetite healthy and food enjoyable once again, he has energy - more importantly, he has a purpose. Everything he does is dedicated to bringing the mafia down. He dislikes visits to the don, his mansion and touch always stinking of death, and not the kind Oswald is used to as a doctor, but he tolerates it, feeding him the bits of information that Jim provides. The don urges him to be more forward with Jim, and Oswald is reluctant, because he - he wants it, but he doesn’t want it to happen dictated by the mafia, he wants such a moment to be only his, his and Jim’s.

But when he and Jim decide that it’s time to move the plan along, to put the finishing stages into motion with Oswald finally “succeeding” at bedding Jim, Jim holds him gently and says they can just pretend, and Oswald can take all the time he wants, and it’s okay if they never actually go through with it. Oswald is grateful, but the thought of “never” is unbearable, and the pretense is not much better.

“I don’t want to pretend,” Oswald whispers into his ear and Jim groans, pinning him to the sofa and ravishing his mouth in a brief loss of control. Jim is so gentle with him after though, so careful, his hands bringing Oswald so much pleasure, focusing on him fully, but Oswald feels how much Jim is restraining himself for his sake, and he tells him it’s alright to let go. The passion Jim lets him feel then is something else entirely, engulfing and hungry like forest fire, and Oswald smiles secretly to himself all through the next day, his skin bearing marks of Jim - and Jim’s of Oswald.

The don is excited by this development, by this illusion of control over Jim they’ve created for him, and he doesn’t doubt Oswald’s words, walking right into a trap. It’s a successful day for GCPD, the major crime family taken out, and the rest are to follow, and the whole of Gotham breathes a little easier.

With this weight removed from Oswald’s shoulders, he’s finally standing tall. He finally feels at peace with himself, and even his crippled knee doesn’t bother him that much. He’s still determined to aim for head surgeon position anyway - and who knows, maybe he’ll become hospital director someday? He smiles freely, he laughs, he cracks jokes, and he’s back to his charming and confident self, and the patients adore him. The colleagues are a different matter, but Oswald’s prepared to work with that.

His mother shows signs of getting better and the doctors tell him she might regain consciousness any day now. Oswald is excited, taking care of her even more dutifully, and talking, telling her about his life, and of Jim.

Because the best thing that came out of it all is Jim. Their jobs don’t make it easy for them, long hours and urgent calls a constant in their life, but somehow… they make it work. Jim is yet to let go of his habit of trying to feed Oswald more despite Oswald lamenting that he’s getting rounder for it, but Jim’s habit of holding and caressing his hands Oswald enjoys immensely. It’s what feels like home. It’s what feels like love.

And when Jim presses Oswald’s hands to his chest, to let him feel his racing heart, and says, grinning, “My heart’s been beating because of you all this time,” Oswald kisses him silly and drops him on the bed, since, really, what is Jim saying, when all this time it was him who’s been saving Oswald?

He’ll just have to work a little bit harder to have it sink in, Oswald smirks, and slides his hand into Jim’s.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this! Any feedback is greatly appreciated, as always <3
> 
> A few notes:  
>  _Anaphylaxis_ \- severe allergic reaction  
>  _Anaphylactic shock_ \- a progression of anaphylaxis, the body starts shutting down  
>  _Crike or Cricothyrotomy_ \- an incision in the patient's neck to establish airway in case of it otherwise being obstructed
> 
> I am basically winging this medical stuff despite research, so... don't take it too seriously :)


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